


Encrypted Desires

by Himitsu_Uragiri



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, M/M, Russian Mafia, shota!Takao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 09:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14913011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himitsu_Uragiri/pseuds/Himitsu_Uragiri
Summary: There was once a lone beast.There was once a bright child.There was once a story of betrayal.There was once a story of salvation.However, how much of it was the truth? And how much of it was a lie?It's twisted, tainted, contaminated... but still, it was once pure.There was once a wish....





	Encrypted Desires

“Whereof what’s past is prologue; what to come, in yours and my discharge.”

\- William Shakespeare, The Tempest.

 

The door to the store closed with an irate clang of protest from the rusted doorbell. The tall man who stepped out into the searing rays of the glaring Russian summer evening was clad entirely in black, seemingly unperturbed by the blazing temperature. The curious eyes of the run off the mill eagerly traced the footsteps of the captivating man as he strode down the cobbled street. An air of mystery clung to his towering frame like an elaborate cloak, his solid posture spoke of an opulent upbringing, and his refined features made for an enviable heritage. His verdant hair hung low, shadowing a pair of emerald orbs, dark and profound, as though they had witnessed everything the world had to offer and found no interest in it. A slight frown tugged at the corner of pale lips on the finely chiselled, handsome face. On the sparsely populated street, the dashing man commanded the attention of everyone in the vicinity, from fawning ladies to envious men. However, out of the countless admiring eyes trained on him, a chill of malice travelled down his spine, made his nerves prickle and his senses heightened. Swiftly, he slipped into an alley, his pace and composure at ease, playing the role of an unsuspecting prey as his pursuers followed suit, none the wiser.

In the young man’s life, he had encountered many such occasions. It came as a package, the working hazards when one was entangled in the unruly world of the underground. Decadent, sybaritic, nefarious – those were a few morsel of words to describe the wretched landscape shaped by the Russian mafia with its rolling hills of corpses and long rivers of blood under the eternal midnight guided by the observant eye of the red moon. His very being was moulded by the darkness. He nourished himself with the flesh of his prey, and sharpened his claws with the bones of his enemies. Once a lone beast, he soon found fellow creatures of embodied nightmares. A bratva* was formed by the still juvenile youths, it consisted of the cruel and cunning, the talented and vindictive, the merciless and bloodthirsty. Together, they rose quickly to the pedestal of legendary, and paved a one-way track to self-destruction. The six of them called themselves a brotherhood, yet trust was never cultivated in their companionship. A foiled attempt at poisoning the elite members of the bratva easily shattered the superficial ties that held them loosely together. It was a bitter betrayal by the one they dubbed as their accomplished leader.

Their confrontation had the air of some comical farce, and they, as actors, played their parts to the letter. The cold moon watched, aloof as an exalted spectator in a box seat high above, the final act of their theatrical performance.

“You! Just what is the meaning of this?!” Always one to show uncalculated emotion, Aomine continued muttering a string of curses.

“This … is a waste of time,” Murasakibara drawled in his particular brand of apathy.

“Why? Akashicchi, why did you do it? What were you thinking?” Kise interrogated.

“Akashi-kun, you’ve changed.” The sentence was delivered in a resigned whisper, Kuroko had long foreseen their outcome.

Akashi Seijuurou held little regard for their rage, impassive, and smiled only, one of sinister craze before setting the building ablaze. Smoke rose from the inferno, looping into complex patterns as the lucky few who managed to escape watched on, their past already burnt to cinders, the foundation of their lives mere rubble.

The companions he once fought alongside with scattered, like dandelions by the wind. Last he had heard of them, Akashi was said to had built a new empire for himself, monopolizing the trade of drugs in the west. Aomine, Momoi, and Kise had already jumped the gun, swore new oaths to different bratvas seemingly without a second thought. It came as no surprise when their elusive phantom sixth man, Kuroko Tetsuya, disappeared without a trace after their dispute. However, Murasakibara Atsushi’s similar act of vanishing into thin air posed an astonishing puzzle. There was no way of knowing how the six foot giant managed to move about undetected.

As for him, Shintarou took to the life of a banal wanderer; a vagabond. Never settling in one place for long, travelling without a destination in mind; nursing an existence of being adrift on the wind. He was hunted by those who bore a grudge against him, sought after by those who craved his power – invitations of which he rejected bluntly. In his adolescent years, he had believed a pledge of allegiance was vital to his survival, but no more. Shintarou tossed such infantile thoughts to the black flames of history. He was - they all were - born and bred from the same darkness, nurtured by primal wickedness. Lone beasts felt no sense of camaraderie, likewise, there was no escape from the menace they had wrought around themselves. The underground was a gloomy space where the sun could not reach. The air reeked of the bloated gutters, and a slimy film of dampness clung to every exposed surface. Regardless of the miles he put between himself and that vile place, Shintarou could never reach where the sun touched the earth. The corrupt matched his footsteps, as indisposable as his own shadow.

As the sun kissed the horizon, erupting into a display of tangerine fireworks, Shintarou came to a halt deep within the alley. With the ease and casualness as though reaching for a cigarette lighter, his hand slipped into his coat pocket, grasping cold metal. Four gunshots rang out in quick succession, ricocheting off the brick walls and screaming into the darkening sky. Four bodies dropped to the ground, heavy, limp, and still, never to rise again. Shintarou regarded the corpses with steel eyes, recognising the contorted faces of the men from the mafia group whose grandiose invitation he had turned down in the previous municipality he passed by. Catching movement from the corner of his eye, he parried the man who had attempted to aim for his back - foolishly thinking he was unguarded - and stabbed the amateurish male with his own knife. The sharpened steel pierced into soft flesh with a sickening sound. Shintarou twisted the blade cruelly, causing his opponent to emit a guttural sound, similar to a mauled animal, before he fell dead. A drop of blood, still warm, splattered onto his cheek as he pulled the knife out.

“Wow mister, that was amazing!” A voice cried out in a high register that only excited children could achieve.

In that narrow alleyway between two brick buildings untouched by sunlight, the first stirrings of a tragedy began to unfold. Amongst the sick stench of blood in the air and the corpses rotting in the summer heat, a boy, a child, hardly ten years old approached him, incautious, unconcerned by the carnage, and with a skip in his steps. The small pair of polished leather shoes the boy wore made little to no sound as he moved, twirling around as he inspected the dead bodies one by one. His slender legs were almost white in contrast to the black shorts he donned. His beige shirt was immaculately ironed and buttoned all the way up, tied with an elegant cravat. The healthy pallor of his skin spoke eloquently of a life of abundance and gaiety. He looked, as the very definition of a child of noble blood, but on his face was not the air of snobbish pride nor of foolish gluttony, but of clever sophistication. An aristocrat, Shintarou deduced, eyeing the two guards who stood by the entrance to the alley. Both were clad in black, expensive tailored suits. One man leaned against the brick wall, smoking, while the other stood with his back to them, keeping an eye out on the streets. At first glance, the men appeared casual but to Shintarou’s trained sight, he could see their leather holsters were unbuttoned, their guns ready to be drawn at the drop of a hat.

“Mister you were so cool just now! First you were like swish! And bang, bang, bang! Then you went fwoosh and a-hah!” The child gestured wildly with his hands, some form of uncultured sign language he could not decipher.

Unable to register the jargon that came out of the child’s mouth, Shintarou wordlessly lifted his left hand and trained the high calibre revolver at the unnamed boy. The barrel was still hot from the shots he fired mere moments ago, and steam rose from the tip. The sight of a gun at point blank would make most people run for their lives with their tail between their legs. Words were unnecessary when it came to persuasion, a dog with a loud bark but no bite could never survive in their world. The boy however, threw him off pace.

“You won’t shoot me. The safety is still on,” he stated in a cheeky fashion.

In a swift, practiced motion, he cocked the safety lock. Shintarou stared at the child, cold and void of emotion, his stare alone could unnerve a grown adult. He was not above killing an infant if they proved a nuisance. Blood, innocent or foul, shared the same sticky crimson when spilled. Still, the mysterious child advanced confidently with slow, deliberate steps until merely a few inches separated them. He was small, his height only up to Shintarou’s waist. The child reached out, without a hint of hesitation, dainty little fingers extended eagerly, coming to rest on the hand that held the pistol currently pointed directly at his head. Wide metallic blue eyes stared up at him, framed by dark ebony lashes, they were vibrant and unwavering in their intensity. A luciferous smile graced his cherry lips, a dimple on each cheek.

“Will you join our group?”

There was no further elaboration but he knew what is was that the boy referred to. Though, it was a first for Shintarou to be solicited by someone so young. The very suspicion of how the child might have approached him knowing his identity eluded him.

“Why would I?” Shintarou found himself replying, not with a brusque dismissal as he would on any other occasion, but with an inquiry.

The child giggled, the sound of it reminded him of the light tinkle of chimes.

“Well, it’s only for formalities sake.”

Fingers, much shorter and slender than his own, slipped into his palm. The gun clattered to the ground with a noisy outcry of objection. His left hand, calloused and rough, skin stained by metal, blood, and heinous crimes – the same hand that held the god of death’s scythe came in contact with a smooth cheek. It was softer than feather, unblemished like porcelain, and white, as though untouched by the sun. Yet, the skin beneath his palm was warm and alive, with a soft pink, healthy glow. Shintarou had never held such precious life before. Little, petite hands hovered over his, so delicate it caught his breath and trapped the air in his lungs, suffocating him.

The lovely boy whispered, almost unheard, words meant for Shintarou’s ears alone.

“I want this hand to protect me.”

His hand was large on the small, almost doll-like perfection of the child’s face. Shintarou’s long fingers could easily wrap around the delicate throat and strangle the life away. And the thought of such frailty terrified him. As it may, the fearless boy simply nuzzled and smiled into his calloused palm, closing his eyes and breathing out a sigh of contentment. The child Shintarou had never encountered before wanted him, but not as the ruthless murderer he was, not the blood soaked beast he was made to be, not the Mafioso famed in all of Russia. He, who was betrayed by his own brother was an outcast. Hunted like some sort of dangerous wild animal, to be killed, or to be tamed. Despite that, there, the child stood, eyes clear and shimmering like glass beads, their brightness accentuated by thick, dark lashes, fluttering with an elegance more captivating than butterfly wings. The little boy beamed up at him, a smile that could make even the angels sing praises. He wanted Shintarou, as a person to hold his hand.

Something long asleep stirred inside him, and a liquid ache spread under his skin. It was the melting of ice by the gentle sun. It brought him to his knees. At eye level, the sparkling pools of aquamarine drew him in and drowned him with the turbulent force of a maelstrom. Centuries telescoped into one, evanescent moment. History was wrong-footed, caught off guard. It slipped loose, the claws of darkness, the damp of rotting mould, the cold of inhumanity, and Shintarou finally, finally broke free.

Instinctively, his other hand reached out to the boy. His fingers thread through black locks, soft as silk. There was something about his wide-eyed vulnerability and his willingness to love someone who could potentially harm him that compelled Shintarou forward. It was trust, so defenceless and unconditional, in its rawest, purest form.

“Yes,” he whispered the word like a prayer. 

He made a promise, a promise to protect the child come what may. The last rays of dusk clawed and clung desperately to the sky, its light brilliant and coruscant.

In the atlas of encounters, the way their paths crossed could be called a curious coincidence, perhaps even, inevitable. The certainty of which was as vague and ambiguous as the line between the rippling tide and the glittering sand. The full name of that capricious individual had yet to be revealed, though if permitted, an observer would blindly speak of fate, of the prefabricated decisions, and the invisible thread that bound every soul. In essence, it was a traditional prelude to any tale woven in the intricate webs of time.

A prelude, to a tragedy.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Belated MidoTaka Day~?? 
> 
> Sorry (not sorry) I'm indulging my love for shota!Kazu and older!Midorima getting all protective here.  
> Actually wrote this a looong time ago, while I do intend to continue, life has unfortunately been keeping me busy. I wanted to write a proper story about salvation but eh, I love angst too much to not delve into the deep darkness of despair that I just had to repeat the line "a tragedy" twice in the entire text just to get my message across. Somewhat inspired by the anime 91 Days, I can never get over how much that anime has taken root in my soul, jeeze it's been what, 3 years already?  
> Hopefully I can get the writing mood back one of these days, I'd really like to finish this hahahaha. Kudos and comments make my day~


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